Slacker

For the past week or so, my shawl has been waiting to be blogged about. Patiently waiting. Just like it patiently waited for me to finish it. For a year. I'm renaming (renaming? I think I should say naming since it didn't have a name other than that shawl I started last fall) the shawl Patience. As in, it had patience and didn't form into an unknottable knot or open itself up to destruction by moth or some other horrid fate. No, the shawl has been patient with me and now I will give it it's due.

It is quite embarrassing that it has taken me so long. First the knitting itself. I mean it was garter stitch. Could it have been more simple? I think not. Then the blocking and the photographing, oy! Part of the reason I haven't blogged about the shawl is vanity. Plain and simple. I haven't taken any good pictures of the shawl. I had Boo take a few of me when I dragged it off the blocking wires but I was hot and sweaty and (as you can see) the pictures do neither the shawl nor me any favors. Hell, I look like an albino Buddha! A humped-back albino Buddha. Note to self: don't tie shawl around neck. Also, throw away that white shirt. And, am I flicking off the photographer or is my middle finger oddly stiff?



As a last ditch effort, I even tried to get the dog in on the photographic action, but she was not receptive. Bitch.



I kept thinking I would take more pictures after, you know, I bathed. But then the thought of bathing, let alone taking pictures after doing all of that scrubbing, well it was overwhelming. Instead I decided to have a beer and wallow in my filth. So the shawl pictures sat in my camera (next to the pictures of the dog pooping because, hey, I am one classy dame) waiting to the see the light of day. Which is, apparently today. Ironic since it is dark and raining out and there is no light to be seen.

The shawl blocked out pretty big. It could have been blocked out more to be a little more open and hole-y and, um, big, but my blocking board, also known as my guest bed, is only so big. I blocked that puppy as much as I could so the final dimensions are basically that of a queen size bed.



I am hoping to breakout the shawl this weekend in Joisey. I'm not sure what our plans are, but I am sure that I can work this in somehow. Beach cover-up, dinner wrap, or evening wear. One way or another, I will whip it out. And maybe, just maybe, I will wash my stink off and get a decent picture.

In the end, despite the fact that I took a pause on the knitting of this, I really like it. It was one hundred percent brainless knitting. The yarn worked smoothly and was knot free. This was my first endeavor with wooden circs and they were fine. The cord had to be dekinked in boiling water and with the hottest setting on my blow dryer. But the dekinking seemed to worked and stay. I liked the knitting process. I like the shawl. And I love the fringy tassels. They were only moderately fussy. And since I am a huge fan of the tassel, totally worth it.



Yarn: Farmhouse Silk Blend, Color: Sedona, 2 skeins
Needles: Wooden Circ, size 5
Pattern: None - Make/increase one stitch at the beginning of every row.
Final Dimensions: A big triangle, roughly 74" across x 42" down.
Time: Forever. Originally started on 08/08/06 but had to rip it out and start all over. Restarted 08/23/06. Finished 04/2007.
Care: Hand Wash Cool, Flat to Dry.

I Know Where I'm Going

Last night at SnB I was asked where in Atlanta I was going. Having Pookie refer to his 'hood as the Gayborhood, I replied, "The gay part?" Turns out I was right! No need to put that question mark at the end. But, it also turns out that his part of town in not actually called Gayborhood Atlanta. I know! Can you believe it? It is called Midtown Atlanta. So let it be known to one and to all that, according to Pookie, knower of all things Hotlanta, Midtown is where the affluent gay boys (and presumably girls) live and Buckhead is where the affluent straight boys (and presumably girls) live.

Also, you'll be happy to note, that not only do I now know I am going to be surrounded my some hot man on man love, I know what our plan is. People we have a plan! Actually we have multiple plans (as opposed to multiple orgasms which may or may not be occurring but are not, as of yet, on the group itinerary).

So Noted

I leave myself notes. The notes are sometimes helpful, like, "I owe Rebecca $5." or "E-mail Kay's birthday pictures." (Which I will, I promise, I just don't have my camera with me. But I won't forget. I wrote it down.) But sometimes, the notes, not so helpful, or um, sensical, like "tangle red," "Lisa Anner Aver Bach," "Geiko Charo add Blumenthal 2 much time," "#54 = good." What the hell?

Often my notes seem like they should be helpful. I'll leave myself notes of song lyrics so that I can track down the song, which seems useful but is not because the lyrics I hear, not the lyrics that were sung. Other times, my notes seem like they should be fun, but again, they are not. I left myself a note of some sort of knitting pattern with four different rounds. Great right? Wrong. I have no idea what it is or where it is from. I'm not sure if I was copying someone else, making up my own thing, or leaving myself a note of what I already had done. Maybe it is plagiarism. Maybe it is an invention. I dunno.

I do know that I wanted to blog about nasty feet. I left myself a note that said, "blog about [illegible] nasty feet. Dirty pig!" I'm not sure whose feet I saw, or where I saw them, but apparently they were bad, bad enough that I thought I needed to share my very definite thoughts on foot care. Because yes, I DO have very definite thoughts on foot care.

Once upon a time, I was a nail technician. Licensed and insured. 100% certified. And though I always thought people with nasty feet should not bare them in the light of day (it is called socks and shoes people!), I did not become militant until I was forced to touch other people's feet. Since moving to Connecticut, I've seen more skeevy gefilte feet and I thought I had become immune (and somewhat smug about my own superior foot care). But sometime in the last month, someone showed me his or her cloven hoof and I was not immune and I was NOT happy. So not happy that I felt the need to write it down and remind myself to mock the nasty little fuker. If only I could remember who the nasty little fuker was ... damn you brain, think! Alas, the subject of my scorn is lost to me, but the scorn, it isn't. Whoever you are, you know you have nasty feet and you should be embarrassed. Shame on you!

Destroyer

My uncle has a little white poodle named Precious. When he and my aunt named the dog, I just about lost it I was laughing so hard. Think about this for a moment. Think Silence of the Lambs. You with me?




Well, they might not have been down with the movie, but the name, it is sort of apropos. This dog is a mess. I knew he had a favorite toy - a bunny rabbit - which he had chewed to shit, so being the nice person that I am, I brought him a replacement down. As you can see here, the top one, nice and pretty, the bottom one, bald and shitty.







Well Mr. Cutey-Patooty-Puppy-Dog grabs a hold and starts to play in his cute, I'm a little small dog way. Nothing seems to out of whack. He's playing. He has a tuft of bunny fur on his chin. But nothing crazy. I (foolishly) think it is all cute and sweet the way he shakes his head and carries on.










But you know what they say, it is all fun and games until someone loses and eye ... or a tail, an ear, part of a leg, and some stuffing.







In one day that dog had the new toy almost as broken in as the old one. Precious my arse!

Holy Yarn Batman!

So I'm home. I like being home. I get to love on the husband and animals. But Miami, it was awesome. And hot. Very, very hot. I kinda miss it (except for the hot part).



On Sunday, I got to catch a baseball game at my alma mater. We won by like 100. Typically when I go to a Hurricane sporting event that is not football, we lose. By a lot. But not this time. I was so excited by the win that I tried to get a picture of me and the Miami Maniac. It turns out that his huge fuzzy head took up the entire space. Or I suck as a photographer. I shall choose to believe it was his big head that was the culprit. You see that sliver of a person on the right? Yah that's me! I look good huh?



I also took a picture of the sock I was working on. I had it in my purse and thought, hmm, let us give this knitting in public a try at the game. But the minute the wool hit my fingers, I started to melt. I decided a picture would be better. The sock picture though, it is a bit of a dud (too) because the guy at the plate ready to hit? On the other team. Yeah me.



Lest I mislead you, my trip wasn't all sunshine and baseball. Oh no. There was sunshine and yarn. A whole bunch of yarn. My uncle and I destashed my aunt's stash and HOLY SHIT! She had bags and bags and bags (and bags - to the infinity power) of yarn. I didn't even go through all of the bags. I'd just take a peak and put it in the yarn-to-be-shipped pile. When we finally got all of the bags out and lined them up, my uncle looked at me and said, "Hmmm. I think I need to go charge the battery on the Bronco. This will never fit in my trunk."



Turns out he was right. It was a good thing he charged that battery because we ended up needing all of the space. There is one bag that had suede ribbon and a fur coat. But the rest ... yarn. Lots and lots of yarn. Some of the yarn was in UFO form and there are maybe ten partially completed sweaters. Most of it though, just balls of fun waiting to be stitched.



Once we got to the pack and ship place, we started to carry it all in and box it up. Multiple people asked if I had, or was opening, a store. I scared them with the large amounts of yarn. It took a little over an hour for three people to unload the car and two people to pack the boxes. In the end I had nine big boxes. I'm not sure what I am going to do when it all gets here. I may have to take a guest room and convert it into a yarn room.



At this point the sheer quantity of yarn is a bit overwhelming and I haven't been hit by the melancholy my-aunt-should-be-knitting-this-I-hate-you-cancer stage. I suspect that will come. But for now, I am just looking forward to opening each box and each bag to see what really is inside.


After we shipped everything off we felt pretty good about ourselves. We returned home and decided to put together my uncle's stereo. As we were putting away the the turn table component box, I noticed some other boxes tucked up high in a corner. Boxes labeled "alpaca" and "wool." I said, "Umm. Huh. I think we may have missed something." Needless to say, that is when the delirious laughter started. We never did check those boxes. We decided to wait until my next trip. Instead we cleaned up and went out for dinner and a nice frozen concoction.


Now I'm home and planning for my next mini-vacation. I got a lot of sock knitting done on my plane flights so I have to start thinking about what is next on the needles. Since we are driving to Joisey to see the MiL for Mother's Day, I will have tons of car knitting time. Maybe I'll work on the Kangaroo Duo sweater. Nah. Who am I kidding?

AC/DC

I've been alternating between panicked anticipation and lackadaisical procrastination. I received the information for my Sockapalooza Pal a couple of days ago and she seems way laid back. Not picky at all. In fact, she is pretty much open to anything, doesn't have any real preference, though she likes bright colors. For a normal person this is awesome. Total creative freedom. For me, one who is just the tiniest bit neurotic (in the same way that the Titanic was a tiny boat), this causes me to vacillate between frantic web surfing/pattern and yarn researching/review reading and oh, napping. Not that I napped today. Today was a no-nap day. Which means I was burning a swath through the internet.

This is really a fun thing and good stress and I am so looking forward to the whole Sockapalloza experience. I just need to chill. And make a decision or five. I like me some Monkey. But I also like me some Broadripple. Do I try to knit some socks in a yarn that is not wool? What is bright? Neon flouresent? So many choices. My pal is blogless! Which means I can't blogstalk her and her tastes. But blogless is not bad, in fact, it is totally a good thing if she finds my taste to be shitarific.

I'm sure it will all turn out fine. Which is why I am going to work on my Queen Kahuna socks during my flight to Miami. My flight leaves at a sensible 8:00 a.m. (which is totally cool and unusual for me, the girl who traditionally wakes up at 3:00 a.m. to make 6:00 a.m. flights), so I should be cognizant enough to knit. I hope.

Weirdness

I have a certain amount of weirdness in my life. Sometimes it ebbs, sometimes if flows. But always, there is some. This morning I arrived at work and almost hit the wall as I was backing into my parking spot. My craparoni parking skills are not the weirdness, this is:



Doesn't seem too odd? Take a closer look (you can click on the pictures to make them bigger).



This man was mindlessly swinging his machete into the bushes across the street. At 7:45 a.m. Had there been any sort of vehicle out front with a lawn care decal or a even a leaf blower, I would think that this was a somewhat unorthodox way to trim the bushes. But there was nothing around that would indicate that this guy was a yard and tree specialist. I think he just liked his knife.

So I quietly left Senor Machete (after taking pictures on the sly), and found this:



What the hell? I didn't think we had birds downtown. Let alone birds that would coo on my windowsill. I suspect Mr. Machete may have ran them off and they came here for safe harbor. It was a bad decision. I chased them off. We don't handle immigration cases. Also, cooing = annoying.

Alive

Let this be proof that I can in fact be around plant life and not kill it. Not only did I not kill this with my very essence, I some how caused it to bloom. It hasn't bloomed in all the years it has been in my office. Until now. Behold. I am magic. (But I am no photographer because my office, it has electricity and this thing called light, despite evidence to the contrary.)

Houston, We Have A Pilikia

Since I am still avoiding the Kangaroo Sweater (and foolishly harboring the delusion that the knitting gnomes are going to come along any second now and finish it for me ... Note to self: knitting a sweater on size four needles = dumb, dumb, dumb!), I needed something new and exciting to work on.

Say hello aloha to my Queen Kahuna socks.



What? Why are you cringing? Laughing? Snorting? Is something wrong? Oh, yes! The horns. Yah baby! My socks are horny! Actually, I have no idea why my socks are horned either. Apparently South Park Republicans don't know how to follow directions properly. Needless to say, that was merely a rough draft. One of like, five.

I ended up reverting back to my regular cast on, but kept the Queen Kahuna fan toe. There is still a little horniness, but it is only slightly horny (say 300 versus Debbie Does Dallas). If I fuss with the inside of the sock, I can kind of get rid of the horns. So it is a horniness I can live with, for myself, I mean, I wouldn't give this horny sock to someone else. That would be hewa!

Good To Know

ME: (Kissing sleeping husband on cheek as I leave for work) Love you.
HIM: Mmmm. You don't smell.
ME: ?? Umm, thanks Boo.
HIM: (yelling) Really. YOU DO NOT SMELL!

The Dinner

Now, The Dinner. I really don't have much to tell. There was no blood shed with which I can regale you. Despite the fact that one of Kay's birthday presents was a wooden baseball bat that could be used to crack some skulls (there was in fact a threat or two of skull cracking with both a bat and some chocolate pudding, which, in hindsight, was a bit kinky, and makes me feel dirty).

Yes, I gave her the bat. It might be because she received a threat from a client and had absolute shit in way of things to defend herself with; or, it might be because some random boy was coming to live with her for ten days. Whatever my motivation, I can tell you that I received a guarantee from three sales people, one random stranger, and my husband, that yes, this bat, if swung at someone's person will incapacitate, if not permanently splatter, them. Thank you Louisville Slugger.

So, The Boy, The Beau, KY (which is a geographical reference and not due to anything I know about his sex life because I know NOTHING of that and don't want to know. Not listening!). Now he reads this here blog, so he can correct me if I am wrong, but facts thus far show: 1) he does not practice voodoo; 2) he does not smell; 3) he wears his socks in pairs, though they are not matched and may not be from the same pair; and, 4) he is willing to take some shizzle from a group of obnoxious women (or um me, the lone obnoxious woman, surrounded by other less obnoxious ones).

Overall The Dinner was a nice time. I ended up winning a dollar because Cheapy McCheap did try to cheap out on dinner. Talk about shooting ducks in a barrel. That was the easiest bet ever. Also, there was one silence that may not have been awkward until I started rocking, saying, "Awkward silence! Awkward silence! This is an awkward silence and I might say something stupid about bodily functions. Stop talking! Must stop talking now! Awkward silence!" Yah, I am a class act.

KY showed no unusual twitches or psychotic traits. Well except for one minor pervy incident in the rest room. But really, is that all that odd? Who doesn't get a little pervy in the bathroom? Especially a public one. It seems that there was a chalk board on the wall behind the urinal. KY was quite excited by this. So he took a picture of it (not because I asked and was like, "Oh yah, yah take a picture!" To which someone replied "but first put 'for a good time call SPR' with her number"), and the obscenely large chalk. Chalk so big that, "this is the kind of chalk that gives guys complexes"*. He initially said he took the picture while someone was whizzing. But then he said he was kidding, no whizzing strangers. And I could find no whizzers in my camera.

So, now that you've seen the boy and realize that he doesn't look like a serial killer - though neither did Ted Bundy (good thing Kay's got a bat) - let me show you the real highlight of dinner:



That was my dinner. Yummy as hell macaroni and cheese that some poor schmuck had to make by sticking each noodle in the bowl one at a time. You know at one point the pile started to tumble and the macaroni and cheese maker vehemently cursed the jerks that ordered the mac and cheese as he had to start again. But I don't care. He could have worked his fingers to the bone. It was totally worth it to me! As a side note, KY had some type of burger. I believe bacon might have been involved. This gives me pause as 1) bacon = gross and 2)is this reflecting a predilection for cannibalism? I'll have to check in the handy dandy pocket DSM-IV at our next SnB.


*Speaking of obscenely large, or in my case, the opposite, obscenely short, do you know that sixteen inches in teeniney for knitting needles. I was all excited about ordering KnitPicks size zero needles and didn't really think it through, or think at all. It turns out that I chose sixteen inch ones which are ridiculously short. I mean, my hands take up the whole area when I knit. I feel like I am using toothpicks, very short toothpicks. Or I have huge man hands. But I don't think so. My hands seem mostly normal to me. I do have a freckle on my middle finger. That is weird. But not a sign of manlyness. I think these are needles for kids or dwarves (which according to Blogger's spell check is really dwarfs ... how can this be?).

First Things First

Geee-aawwwdd! Y'all are impatient for some news on The Dinner. My inbox is seeing more action than Wilt Chamberlain. Unfortunately my job, they expected me to get some work done today. Insane, I know. Also, I have two finished projects to share. And my knitting, better than The Dinner. Not that The Dinner was bad. It wasn't. The birthday bat, not used to kill anyone. You're just gonna have to sit through my knitting first. Waahaha.


So, the Anastasia socks? Done! They were a pretty quick knit. Despite my weird thing. The weird thing that I did to plain rows of knitting on the sole of the foot. Yes, that would be the easy part that I did my weird thing on. Twice. Once on each foot. I'm awesome. The only reason I noticed anything was awry was because one stitch in a row was off color, e.g., a green stitch in the middle of a navy row. It isn't a dropped stitch. It's like I ... I dunno. I don't think anyone really knows what it is. Other than weird. K.A.N. fixed it when I saw it the first time. The second time? I noticed it as I was binding off. Too late.


Speaking of bind off. I followed the directions and did an EZ's sewn cast off. Love it! It is easy, pretty and stretchy. A total winner!





Disregard my asshole cat's reluctance to be a model and his running from my socks as fast as his stubby legs could take his seventeen pounds of fun. And disregard his look of pure hatred. The socks are nice. He's just a cat, and well, not down with the modeling of the handknit sock.

The socks were a lot of fun to knit, and the directions easy for me to follow. It was a little fussy moving your eyelet rows when they moved from front to back or vise versa. But not too fussy. Speaking of fussy, I think this yarn might be a bit too fussy for these socks. The eyelets are kinda jarring in the stripeyness of this yarn. It makes me think that the socks look broken. Or something. I liked the yarn. Though I did have a hard time making the colors come out in a way that I liked. This yarn and this pattern probably weren't meant to be (but it's too late now). In fact, I think I might wear the socks inside out because the colors on the inside kinda look better to me. Maybe that was my cat's issue. All the stripeyness clashed with his fur.

If anyone is thinking about making these, I totally recommend them. I would say you should do one whole sock at a time. I did my normal both-socks-at-once-piece-meal thing and that threw me a few times. Inevitably my spirally eyelets turned into a traffic sign when I switched to work on the other sock.



Yarn: Artyarns, color 140, 2 skeins
Needles: Addis, size 1
Pattern: Anastasisa Socks
Time: Two and a half weeks.
Care: Hand wash, dry flat.

T Minus 5

In about five and a half hours, I am going to a friend's birthday dinner. Also known as The Dinner. Not the Atlanta/Miss Lambert party, this one is local. Which is good. I may need alcohol. In large quantities. I may also need a taxi. Note to self: Put taxi number on hand in PERMANENT marker. I am meeting my friend's new beau. Well he is new. But not. They met yesterday for the first time in their long distance/phone/internet relationship. So new in the sense that there has never been an in person meeting. He's staying for like a thousand days. In her apartment. Her one bedroom, small apartment. This can't be good. I love my friends that I've known for years, but they are only welcome for three days in my hugungo (comparatively) house. Then they're ass out. House guests are like fish, bad after three days. So, I am very nervous for my friend because this has the potential to be the longest ten days of her life. Which in and of itself could provide me with lots of laughs. I mean he could smell, have a weird love of flowers, not floss, leave the toilet seat up, only eat yellow foods (butter ... yummm), only wear one sock, shave with a machete, require blue flowered toilet paper, have a tick, be obsessed with midgets, wear underoos, and so on. Because everyone, no matter how nice and apparently normal, has a freak flag. The only question is how high does he fly it. Also, what if he isn't abnormally freakish, but instead is a closet cannibal or serial killer? Can I eat next to a guy with some other guy's bits stuck in his teeth? Guy bits ... I meant that in a cannibalistic way not in a blow job way, because really, who hasn't had a guy bits in their teeth every now and then?

So, The Dinner. As if the new dynamic of a budding relationship with the unknown serial killer Beau won't be interesting enough, another person is attending. Another person who I don't always get along with. And by not get along I mean this woman is the cheapest bitch in the whole wide world and if she tries to cheap out on her portion of dinner, I may very well do something unsightly. And violent. She tries to be discreet in her cheapness. I realize this is YOUR birthday dinner and my share is thirty dollars, but I only have a twenty, so even though you aren't suppose to pay a dime, pay my share and I'll get you back. It doesn't work. We know you are cheap. You mean get her back when hell freezes over, right? Everyone notices your cheap. Everyone gets pissed. No one says anything. But me. Then I am the dickhead. Which is cool. So long as you pay your part of whatever we are paying for because I AM NOT YOUR BANK. So if your share of dinner is X, you better have X, not Y. Also, if you get caviar and a bottle of Dom, and are a greedy non-sharer, then you better be paying for it all. S'all I got to say. Otherwise I will drag your ass to the ATM by your hair and make you get your money out. Wow. That sounds a bit angry huh? But I guess I am angry. I HATE CHEAP PEOPLE. If you can't afford something, then don't do it, buy it, or order it.

Anyway, The Dinner. I'm looking forward to it. It will be a great time. Hopefully not because The Boy is Wackadoodle or Cheapy Cheap is bludgeoned with her empty wallet.

Sign

In a couple of weeks I'm going to Atlanta to celebrate a friend's birthday. The planning has been, well, um, retarded? We have multiple factions with multiple ideas which lead to forty emails in my inbox during a one hour period. Who jumps out of the cake? Is Trader Vic's kitschy cool or tragically dated? Who is paying the strippers? Where can we go that has 10 Cane rum? Do we get girl strippers or boy strippers? Should we wear matching pantaloons? What about a keeping B & J a secret? Oh the decisions. I decided to take the high road (or the easy, I'm a lazy bastard road) and proclaimed, "I have decided that I want nothing to do with the planning. This way, if it sucks, it is someone else's fault, not the lady from Connecticut wearing comfortable shoes and cat hair." But guess what. Even after I removed myself from the role of planner to the role of sarcastic commentator of the planners and their plans which aren't really plans because no one is making a decision and everyone is getting irked at everyone else, the stress was just as, well, stressful. Crazy, huh? I think I may be a bit of a control freak. Who knew? But it is ok. Now. Now, I'm relieved. I received a sign. A sign that all will be perfect for my friend, Miss Lambert's partay. You see, my brand new knitting book has an entire chapter titled "Miss Lambert" !!! Profound, no? Miss Lambert here, Miss Lambert there, everywhere a Miss Lambert having fun. And if she isn't? It isn't my fault. I didn't plan shit. I'm just half of the "secret BJ."

In other news, I still have The Dinner this weekend and a trip to Miami to get through first. I have managed to block my shawl and it is ready for pictures. Note to self - take pictures! Also, I only have the ribbing left on my Anastasia socks. This is both exciting and nerve wracking because I need another project for next weekend when I fly to Miami. Because you know I am not bring my big, bulky, hot ass wool sweater down to friggen Miami. But what to choose ... I dunno. Maybe I'll receive a sign.

Minutes Schminutes, vol. 3

Following precedent of the finest caliber, I share the following SnB moments:

Two new books that are bound to be best sellers: 505 Ways to Improve Your Knitting By Cutting and 505 Ways to Decorate By Fire.

Half of our knitters liked the nasty peach fruity tea, the other half liked the glorious cinnamon tea. All of our knitters liked oreo brownies and raspberry lemon bars. Obviously half of our knitters were overcome with temporary, short term, brain injuries. Or, it may be the Borg.

Capgras delusion - fun for everyone!

If you are going to knit a sweater for a teddy bear that is being donated to charity, you must do it with the worst possible acrylic yarn. The knitting experience must suck a little so that you can feel like you really are doing something charitable.

If you have an extra 20% off sticker to put on any book, and you narrow your choices down to two, just buy both, otherwise you'll regret it and feel like you bought the wrong one.

Should you find yourself impaled on a knitting needle, do not first take a picture - PULL THE DAMN THING OUT!

"His kiss is the kind that gets you wet from ears to toes."

Mini flans are the wave of the future in desert foods. Despite the fact that they are of Spanish decent (I think), they are found in Asian food markets.

Just because you think you aren't going to be giving "it" up, doesn't mean you should get some "yard work" done.

"XY chromosome" or "ex-wife chromosome" ... Are you embarrassed to have 'em?

Should you be a 27ish year old man, with a super secret blog in which you talk about things like midget sex parties and take pictures of your self in superhero costumes (and you want to keep it super secret), you should NEVER EVER mention your place of employment by name. You boss just may find it and then never be able to look you in the eye again.

Second Verse

Well the thermostat is holding at surface-of-the-sun-hot. The Office Manager doesn't want to call a repair person, she thinks that it just takes awhile for a building to cool down. I suspect that "awhile" means months and that we should expect relief in, oh, December. I'm really not sure what to make of this since I am delirious, a side effect of heat stroke I suspect. I've accepted that the outside layer of epidermis on the back of my thighs, the layer which was diligently faux tanned with tubes of oddly smelling lotions, is now no longer golden, but instead clear. It has been melted from my body. It no longer exists. Each time I am required to move my ass from the black pleather of my chair, I feel a sting and hear a rip. If I actually stand up and look, there is a sweaty ass print in my chair. This is extremely sexy. I think I am making my coworkers hot in ways that the heat has not. I'm not the only one suffering. My printer has given up and jams my paper. I take this as a sign that I should kick back and take a break. Although I am not sure how I should break from reclining in my chair, feet on my desk, fan blowing on my face ... recline on the floor maybe ... heat rises?

Indeed

I really do work in hell. The air conditioner has been on overnight and has managed to cool my office to a balmy 77 (Yes balmy. We've acquired some humidity to go with our heat. Whoopdefukindoo!). Since I am not looking at the sea, listening to the waves, smelling the sunscreen, or drinking a piña colada, this is no good. This is why people go postal. Normal person, extreme temperature, surrounded by wackjobs. You do the math.

Damnation

It is currently eighty-one degrees (Fahrenheit) in my office. The air conditioning is on (and set to seventy), my fan is blowing (on high), and my window is open. Yet, I sit here sweltering. My ass is sticking to my pleather chair. I have sweat gathering between the girls and I don't sweat. I realize that my job is a metaphorical hell. I realize that my boss is evil personified. But really, must this place actually FEEL like hell?

Random Bits

1. Lyme disease advocates.* Pardon? I read this phrase in the newspaper and had to giggle. Hi, I'm an advocate for Lyme disease. You don't know it, but you really do want to contract Lyme disease. It is soooo cool. You play with the neatest little bugs and the next thing you know, bam, you have yourself some Lymey goodness. You'll get awesome headaches, loopy fatigue, and a groovy skin rash. Plus, you can let it go untreated and get swell neurological effects! It's wicked fun. To get your own infection, please feel free to call me, your local Lyme Disease Advocate, at 1-800-LYME-FUN.

2. I hear that Oprah Winfrey has a shoe system where she organizes her shoes by the length of time they are wearable. Though I never formalized my shoe organization this way (or anyway to be honest - my shoes are chucked all willy nilly into a laundry basket, old shopping bag, and pile), I do have a similar mental catalog. So imagine my dismay yesterday when my "wear to court if parking less than five blocks away" shoes turned into "jesus fuk that's the biggest blister I've had since my bachelorette party" shoes. See, at my bachelorette party I was a bit blitzed. So it is understandable that I didn't notice the huge ass blister forming on the ball of my foot. Hell, I wouldn't have noticed aliens invading my ... mind. But yesterday, not blitzed. I was even walking pretty normally (for me). I did stumble a time or two when my meager inch and a half heel caught in a sidewalk crack. I also thought, "Hmm, my foot kinda stings." I did not, however, expect a two inch blister on the ball of my foot. This, in case you are wondering sucks. Not just because my foot is now gimpy, but because I will now need to revert back to wearing my comfy shoes which some (Joan) might call ugly, old-lady, or "Holy Shit! Are you wearing Naturalizers?"

3. Did you know that girly fru fru fruity drinks are considered health food? The next time you are chugging down your fifth cranberry and vodka, or chasing that twenty-third shot of Jägermeister with a strawberry daiquiri, don't fret. You are being healthy. This is good for you. Imagine the health benefits of having a bottle of red wine followed by a few pomegranate martinis. I'm so happy that I am now planning on having some "health food" for lunch. Not only will I get my daily nutrients, I will forget about the burning fire that is my left foot AND I'll also gain a higher tolerance for listening to the window-licker I work for babble on.

4. Not washing your hair for a few days so it is more "flippy" and "chunky" is not flattering. "Flippy and chunky" are really "greasy and gross." In fact, when you leave a shiny spot on the headrest on the back of your chair, you're dirty. Further, if you ask me what I think. I will tell you. You look dirty. Don't fake cry. Wash your damn hair.


*In defense of the article's author (see, I can reel in the bitchmiester), he later inserts the word patient in there - Lyme disease patient's advocate. This obviously makes much more sense. Though it does take away some of the fun.

Ten Cents

Q: What does a Jenna do when she gets to court a half an hour early?
A: Decide that thirty minutes is plenty of time to knock out half a heel and starts knitting.
Q: What happens when a Jenna brainfarts and does not slip each first stitch on her short row heel?
A: Cussing - but not of the quarter variety.





I'm not sure what effect the (STUPID STUPID) slipped stitch is suppose to have on the (ASSHOLE) heel, so I may trudge along and pretend I had slipped (THE DICKWEED) as instructed just to see what happens. Or, I may decide that if I'm going to knit, I should do it properly (DAMMIT) and rip back.

Vacation

I have several trips lined up. I'm going to Miami, Atlanta (hopefully - damn you Delta lower your fares!), Utah, Colorado, California, and Boca Raton. I thought it might be fun to broaden my horizons so I started looking at oversea destinations. I was thinking the husband and I could go visit Oxford, and I could show him some of my old haunts. Well I Google Mapped the directions and it seems like it is a twenty-nine DAY trip. I guess that is because, at step fifteen, you have to "swim across the Atlantic Ocean." Even if you set a good pace, swimming those three thousand, four hundred, sixty-two miles is bound to slow you down.

These Smell

Kay got flowers today.

She says there was no particular reason. She swears there was no sex involved.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." - Hamlet (III, ii, 239)

I Don't Smell

So the Anastasia socks have been flying along. Okay, that's not true. Why must I start every post with a lie? What the hell? It's like I am channeling Fletcher Reede. Oh, and no, those pants do not make your ass look fat. And Crazy? Your hair looks fabulous.



The socks are moving along, though there has been much ripping. I had a hard time finding the perfect number of stitches that would satisfy both fit and aesthetics. The stitches for a perfect fit created gawd awful pooling with one half of the front and back being green and white and the other half being gray and purple. Not pretty. I suspect using smaller needles could have addressed this issue but my smaller needles are not mine yet. I did order some though and they are in transit. In the meantime, I ended up reverting back to a higher number of stitches, and trying to knit uber tight. As I am a loosey goosey knitter (which is in no way - hehe - whatsoever - hehe - a reflection on my morality ... man I couldn't even get that sentence out without laughing), this is actually somewhat hard for me to do. I don't think this tightening of the stitches makes any real or noticeable difference in the socks; they don't feel any smaller. But it does make me feel better.



I've also had to rip because the pattern is just a smidge too mindless or not mindless enough. I'm not sure which. I get in a groove with all of that stockinette and then bam, I realize I've overshot my yarn overs. I think if I had more patterny stuff then I wouldn't flake out and miss it so much. On the other hand, if I had more patterny stuff, I might be ripping out messed up patten. Either way, I've had some ripping. I also had issue switching directions and stitches for the other sock. I typically mirror what I am doing with the other sock so it is toe, toe, foot, foot, heel, heel, etc. But I did the entire foot and heel before starting the other so my brain keeps wanting to send the spirals the wrong way. I guess I have a one track mind. Errg. That was awful. Anywho, I am enjoying the knitting of these socks a lot.

And, in other news, can I just tell you how friggen disgusted I am with the media for blaming the horror at VaTech on the university and police? On my way to work this morning, which, as an aside, took an extra thirty minutes due to people gawking at the flooding. Not actually driving through or coming in contact with the flooding or even the edge of the flooding, but just looking at because GOD DAMN! There's WATER! Anyway, as I was stuck in the car surrounded by asses, I channel surfed and every single one of my six preset FM stations and my one preset AM station was stating that the university and the police should have done more to prevent the shooting spree. There was even a poll asking who was at fault, other than the shooter. Um, what the fuck?

Why is anyone other than the shooter at fault? I mean, do we really expect the police and university people to have psychic powers and know that the first two shootings were not the typical domestic incident they seemed like? Were they suppose to divine that this fucker was going to go on a rampage? And furthermore, why was university's sending out of an e-mail "ridiculous"? Because students "sleep in"? Are you kidding me? That is just dumb. Using that logic, if the ones who didn't read the e-mail were sleeping in, then they weren't out and about and in the line of fire and were safe. It is understandable to want to place blame and have a bad guy. But as the person/entity that is delivering the news, you need to stick with the facts and report the news, not get caught up in the anger and outrage and look for a patsy.

Don't misunderstand. If the shooter hadn't killed himself, then I would be the first in line saying he should die. Hell, I personally would flip the switch, plunge the needle, load the camber, or fashion the noose. Why? Because he was the fuckwit that did this. Not the police. Not the university. One twisted sick individual did this and the blame for these deaths and the horror that remains rests solely on his shoulders.

Fascinating

Man, was this weekend interesting. Actually, it really wasn't. But I figured if I said, "Man, was this weekend status quo" you would have moved on. And that would be sad. You'd miss out on a wonderful post. Again, wonderful. It's a lie. Adequate? Sure. But not attention grabbing.

So, let's just move on as if that whole first paragraph wasn't even there. But if it wasn't here, would we really be moving on or would we just be starting? Ok, I'm going to get serious now.

My car has a secret admirer. Seriously. I'm not making that up. No bait to get you hooked. Just straight up truth. On Friday I went to prison to see some clients. I parked in the middle of a parking lot and no other cars were around me. Hours later when I got back to my car, there were still no other cars nearby but someone had tossed her unmentionables towards my baby.



That black lacy thing? Not there when I left the car. I didn't feel comfortable touching it. Hygiene and germs and that kinda thing. But I can tell you it is fishnetish lace and looks like it could have been underwear that were ripped off. Maybe an inmate was released from prison and was so excited to be free that she started a striptease in the parking lot and my car just happen to be next to where the underoos landed. Or, maybe someone saw my black beauty and got all hot and bothered and tossed the underwear at the hood like the rock and roll groupies tossing their underwear on stage at concerts. Or, maybe, and most likely, it rained underwear.

And yes, I know, this type of thing doesn't happen to normal people. I must be charmed! The car, however, seems to be scarred, not charmed. A day later and it wouldn't let me take a decent picture of Dogbert. She was all tuckered out and cute and curled up into the tiniest ball of dog and I wanted to memorialize the cuteness. But noooo. The car wasn't having any of it. I let the car get molested by dirty panties and it was going to make me pay. Exhibit A: Dogbert sans half of face and muzzle. Exhibit B: Dogbert sans legs, tail and butt.



Now it could be that I am a crapass photographer and shouldn't have been trying to take pictures while I was driving. Or, it could be that the car was ticked. I'll let you decide.

Borg, Boobs and Beauties

Last night's SnB was um, interesting? We had spirited conversation, much frogging, and were swarmed by bees. Or were they the Borg? Were we being assimilated?


I actually took a "movie clip" when we were surrounded by twenty or so of these maroon clad people but am not computer savvy enough to figure out how to get it on this here blog. My bad.

Did B&N decide that it was tired of us taking the comfy chairs, the less comfy chairs, and all of the other chairs for our fibery pursuits and determine that we needed to be brought into the collective? I really don't know. Resistance may have been futile, but it was also minimal. I mean come on, we were knitting. Only time will tell. Should some of my fellow knitters have an undeniable urge to work a B&N register, or make some B&N lattes, then we'll know. Should we start knitting matching maroon sweaters, then we'll know. Should we program our cellphones to ring like the grocery store check out scannerbeepthingamajig, then we'll know. In the meantime, I am going to attribute my eye twitch not to assimilation but to the boob talk.

Earlier today I received a nice note from Linda about our breast feeding conversation last night. Thanks Linda, I really appreciated it. Y'all didn't offend me but I did feel like I was under attack. I am, however, use to being the voice of dissension and I do enjoy debate, so it didn't really bother me.

The vast majority, or um, every single person there but me, felt like breast feeding in public, out in the middle of things, was fine and all the people around the breast feeders should lump it or leave it. Screw them and their discomfort. I disagreed. I was frustrated though because it seemed like people weren't listening to what I was saying and instead were making assumptions about why I feel the way I do. So, in an attempt to explain myself and put the matter to rest, or as much rest as you can when one of your fellow knitters is pregnant, I am hereby declare this my official position on Breast Feeding In Public ...

I am not anti-breast feeding. I am not pro-bottle. I am not anti-boob. I am not Ms. Victorian anti-nude. I like boobs, artistic nudes, non-artistic nudes and even porn. I do not live in a cave. I was not raised in a science lab. My family has breast fed. All of my friends in my age group that have children have breast fed. I think it is your choice on how you nourish your child. If you want to bottle feed your baby milk and honey, knock yourself out. I don't care. It is your choice, though I do think breast feeding is a good idea. I do not, however, want people to breast feed right next to me. I do not like when women breast feed in the middle of a public area. If you want to go into the back of a store/restaurant/etc. where you are tucked away and have a modicum of privacy? Great. Go for it. I have no problem with that. Just don't do it next to me when I am in the middle of eating my meal, buying my shoes, etc. Breast feeding is not the same as bottle feeding. It's just not.

If you disagree with me, that's fine. But don't tell me my opinion is not valid simply because we disagree. Don't tell me that I am uninformed or uneducated because we disagree. Being around more breast feeding women will not change my mind. Having children will not change my mind. Further, I think that it is pure hypocrisy to say that breast feeding is one of the most intimate things between a mother and child, that it creates a unique and special bond, but then say that it is nothing special and people who don't want to sit by you while you do it just need to deal. Either way, I acknowledge the intimacy, I don't, however, want to be a spectator to it. Um'kay? Also, I still love you guys even though you want to whip your boobs out all over the place.

So now moving on to something that won't start or continue a shit storm, do you see my sock?



It is like an embryo now. Okay, what the hell is with all the baby references? (Coincidentally, as I was typing that sentence one of my friends sent me an e-mail that he and his wife are knocked up again - Congrats Dee!). Anyway, let me try this again. It was not like a zygote, it was like a larva. It is not now like an embryo, it is like a chrysalis. Bug imagery. Better. I finally settled on a pattern. Well by settling on, I mean it turned out I had 34 stitches cast on each needle and this is was the pattern that worked with out too much math. So I settled on Anastasia. TWG is working on them too, so it will be nice to have someone to help me when I'm all, "Why the hell are these too big?" Because you all know I am going to have a "Why in the hell are these too big?" moment.



And um, speaking of "Why in the hell is this sock too big," when I stretched it out to take the picture so you could see my two little rows of eyelet, it kinda looked a little large. Dammit!

Crack

Since I am decrepit, dilapidated and defunct, I think it is time for a little self-medicating, no?



That is like the zygote of sock knitting. I have fertilization but that's all. I'm waiting for the rest to develop (and um, maybe I still need to pick a friggen pattern). I had a hard time capturing the gloriousness of these colors with my overhead fluorescent lighting, surprising isn't it, but you get the idea.



If the color seems familiar, it might be because I've used this colorway before. I'm just drawn to it. I can't get enough. I may need an intervention. But don't do nuthin' 'til I finish these socks, okay?

Doddering

I cringe as I type this ... but somehow I have managed to hurt my hip. I know! My hip! When did I become a senior citizen? Something happened last night when I was ... wait for it ... sitting on the couch. Yes folks, the rigors of sitting on my ass and watching NCIS (I love you Mark Harmon) some how injured my left hip. I can't even claim a cool injury like hang gliding, no I get sitting. Now I know the left side of my body is all gefilte and broke, despite my gall bladder's weak ass attempt to even the score. But still, my hip? How old am I? Yes, yes I know, I don't really wear high heels any more and I lost my napping mojo. I figured that those were a sign of aging, not a sign that I was one foot in the grave. Or is it that I have one foot in the grave? Distance or body part? Whatever, apparently the mental synapses are shot too. The next thing you know, I'm going to be shunning 50 Cent (who has a new song Straight To The Bank. I dare you to listen to it and not get the Ha HaHaHaHa Ha part stuck in your head) in favor of Lawrence Welk. I suspect that I am going to be getting my honorary membership in AARP an minute now.

The Absurd & Devine

Work story for the day: Absurd.

And, a tease for tomorrow (or whenever I get the gumption to do some blocking):

Easter Funday

Yesterday was Easter, in case you somehow missed it. I've always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the day. I mean I love me some chocolate and candy and sugary yumminess, but I hate that everything is closed. For like four years in a row, I found myself at the mall, staring at it in sadness, wondering why in the heck it was closed. There was an extra sense of absurdity as I would sit in the empty parking lot in that I never really went to the mall and the one day I did decide to go was one of the rare days that the place was closed.

Anywho this year, knowing in advance that the mall would not be an option, I made other plans. There was the whole sleeping in thing. Then there was a trip to the park with the husband and the dog. A trip to get some coffee. A plan to watch the brand new Sopranos and Entourage. Oh there was also dinner out. Somehow though, in my planning, I forgot to pencil in "being staked out by the police."* Odd how I missed that. You see, it turns out if two heathens have nothing better to do, and decide to go swing on swings or play on the jungle-gym, and the heathens are "adults" then the police get suspicious. They may first do a couple of drive-bys where the two cops in the car stare at the heathens, hoping to intimidate them off of the playground equipment. If that doesn't work, they may park their car, and stake out the heathens' locale. If the heathens move to a different part of the playground, the cops may move their car so that they can see better.

But don't worry, I, a heathen extraordinaire, did not let the police ruin my fun. No sirree. I swung on the swing (higher than Boo, go me!), I slid down the slide (having my hips wedge me into a sudden stop at the bend of the slide, not so fun, and slightly embarrassing having it happen in front of two cops and your husband), I teetered on the totter, and I even climbed a kid sized rock wall (which, in the future when I retell this story, will turn into a full adult sized rock wall which I scaled with skill and stamina that impressed even the cops who were observing my nefarious actions). I also went on this crazy ass thing that has no name that I know. It is a tall moving pole, that is bent, with a disk-platform thing that is about three feet off the ground. You stand on the disk-platform and your weight makes the pole swing mad crazy fast in circles and back and forth. Should you ever see one of these, you have to get on it. It is awesome. Be prepared for much (slightly hysterical) laughter, and maybe a head injury as you slam your noggin into the pole.

While at the park, but before we were on the police radar, we decided to take Dogbert for a walk. While we were walking we found a random tennis ball. Not one to let a great opportunity pass (despite the chance of the contracting the dreaded "biogerm" something Boo could not define but swore was bad and cause our dog to turn all mad cow), I decide to grab the ball and see if Dogarella would play fetch. Since she never plays with balls, and kind of sucks at the fetch thing, I didn't have high hopes. Turns out, however, that the biogerm makes fetching and chasing the tennis ball great fun. We even managed to wear her ass out:



* You'll also note that I did not plan on any knitting. I thought about it. But I'm at one of those times where I don't know what to do next. I gave up on the sideways socks (I'm convinced that that pattern will never work well for a normal human sized foot) and gave the yarn to my friend. Hopefully, for her sake, the hex is solely with the pattern and not with the yarn. I have the shawl that I dug out from last year that I finished. It just needs some tassels which I am putting off because tassel making? Ick. I have the kangaroo sweater, which I have done a few rows on every now and then. But that is it. I could get out the top down sweater, but it seems too hot for sweaters. That leaves socks. Which is great. But what sock? I can't seem to decide. I've looked at the Anastasia sock and the Mata Hari sock because I think either might do well with very variegated yarn, and women in my SnB are making or have made each, I like them both. But I can't decided. They kinda look a lot alike to my eye so maybe I just need to draw a name from a hat.

Eavesdropping

Overheard in a parking lot yesterday afternoon ...

Man 1: It looks nice.
Man 2: (Putting a bag in the trunk of BMW 3.28i) It is. It is a good car, nothing fancy. Good mileage.
Man 1: Yah, it seems like a really nice car.
Man 2: Well I don't need anything fancy. I don't have a big ego. I just need a regular car that gets me to places. Something simple. I have a very modest ego.

What Man 1 should have said: Small ego? Pushaw. Whatever dude. Don't front. You ain't fooling nobody. You know you really wanted a five series but just couldn't afford it.

Good Vacuum Karma

Through the magic schoolbus of the internet, I stumbled upon a contest to win a free Dyson. It seems legit, so I figured I'd enter. You can too - click here.

Junk In My Trunk

Whenever I’ve been delinquent in my blogging and I come back to my little blog, I hear the song Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode in my head. This is not really apropos to anything, just thought I’d share. It is a good song.

So recently I have been having some troubles with my work computer. It is, in a word, shit. But I was okay with this shittiness, I didn’t pay for it and, for the most part, it got the job done. But lately, the whole “hmm, I think I will shut down now even though you are on page twenty-three of the best brief ever written by man but has not been saved” thing, it kinda sucks. So our “computer guy” was called in. The term “computer guy” is quite misleading. He is a pervy friend of our administrative director. He is skeezy and any time he touches my stuff I have to Clorox Wipe it down before I can touch it again. His hair is perpetually greasy and he wears the infamous Chester-the-child-molester-glasses. He brags about how he likes young girls despite having a wife his own age. In case you couldn’t tell, I no likey. Also, no one else likey either, but them the breaks. And again, this is really apropos to nothing. Sorta. See, I now have a loner computer which is slow and not programmed for my very detailed specifications, like, oh, printing when you hit the “print” icon. Picky Jenna! Since the loaner is not so much fun, I’ve had to find other ways to occupy my time.

First, I played with the sideways sock. No picture necessary, it looks like it did before. I knit some more. I threw in a few short rows in the heel area. I didn’t do this on the other side. This could be bad. I hope to finish it by tomorrow. One way or another. For the record, should this incarnation of this sock suck, the yarn is being donated to the first person who wants it and is willing to rip out all of my hard work. Should no one want the shitty shitty shit shit, I am burning it. I have a fireplace, I have matches, I have no more patience.

Second, I cleaned out my purse. This, it turned out, was like diving into a treasure trove. I can deduce the unopened toothbrush was tucked in there at my last dental appointment, so though it is odd, it isn’t that odd. Plus, good oral hygiene is important. You'll never know when you need to brush. The rabies tag, I must have dropped it in le purse at our last vet appointment - in January - and forgotten about it. The earrings are a bit of a mystery because if asked, I would have sworn I could have told you where they were and that place was most definitely not my purse. At least they are my earrings. But the rest of the crap, what the fuk? It’s like I was subconsciously going all survivalist. But not doing it well.



Why do I have a plastic fork in my purse? And butter? Was I planning an afternoon snack? If I was stranded and forced to live on the contents of my purse, the butter, not at all helpful. And the fork, not much better. Hell, the fork is even too big to fit in the butter packet. Ridiculous.

Also, one battery. One double “A” battery. Lame. Can anyone name a single product that uses only one double “A” battery? No. And you know why? Because these bitches are used in pairs. They are never used alone. It’s like the buddy system of batteries. So why do I have this lone one? Did his buddy battery give him a “bad touch”? Was he seeking asylum in my purse? Or, and I think this is more likely, did he get together with the one screw, decide to buck tradition, and live in connubial bliss in the depths of the Louis? What about his friend the twist tie? How does he fit in? Was his job to keep the battery and screw together, united against all of the lip gloss, random change, and dental products that wish to tear them asunder?